Karna
by psquare
Summary: The first time Sam and Dean met Adam Milligan, it was a few days before the Christmas of '06, and he was a high school student who could set fires with his mind. AU.
1. One

_**A/N:**_ This will be a multi-chap, not more than 5-6 parts, I expect. And no, it isn't a typo: _Karna_ refers to the _Mahabharata_ character of the same name. The parallels I draw between Adam and Karna are superficial at best - I will be the first to admit that I'm no great literary character analyst or such-like - but the idea was enticing and fun, so.

**Warnings:** AU, but set after 2.10:_ Hunted_, so SPOILERS up till the same. Also, some specific spoilers for the rest of season 2, season 4, and very, very vague ones for Season 5. Swearing, violence, blood and gore, weirdness.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

* * *

_**Karna**_

_"Are you sure about this?"_

_Images resolved in the dark with painful slowness: the silhouette of a girl with long hair looking up at a taller boy, her hands clutching at his sleeve. Black against black, figures in a moving, organic darkness._

_"Ssh," the boy said, moving out of her grip. "It's gonna be fine." Scraping and sliding sounds emerged, the sounds of drawers and cupboards being opened as the boy's silhouette moved steadily away from the girl's. Suddenly, he stopped. "I mean, that's... you __**do**_**, **_you know, wanna... with me, right? I mean... you know."_

_"Oh? Um, yeah," the girl said quickly. "Totally. It's just... you know," she paused, and threw her arm out in a wide gesture, "__**this**__ isn't exactly what I'd had in mind when you said we'd get all the privacy we need."_

_"Oh, we will," the boy said. "__**Nobody**__ really ever comes to this place." He let out a soft cry of triumph as he found what he was looking for. A few more sounds and a _drag-snap _later, their immediate surroundings were illuminated by the weak, flickering light of the candle that the boy held in his hand. "Romantic yet?" he said, his teeth glinting in the yellow light._

_"You couldn't be romantic if you were a hundred year old vampire," she replied, throwing her arms around his neck. "But you'll do."

* * *

_

"You know," Dean said dryly, "if that turns out to be a kinky dream and _not_ a vision, you are _so_ buying us a steak dinner tonight."

Sam blinked. He was lying on the floor, the cobwebby motel room ceiling and Dean's face swirling in slow circles above him. The chair he'd been sitting in just a few minutes ago lay by his side, overturned. Frowning, he tried to move, only to stop abruptly as his head violently protested the idea. "Auuughahh..."

"Well, yeah, okay, you're buying dinner anyway. When's the last time you -"

Sam gave another deliberate blink, trying to force down his nausea. He was actually rather surprised he could even see, considering the building ache behind his eyes that throbbed with every beat of his pulse. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Deaaan..."

Finally, Dean reached down to help him. Clutching gratefully at Dean's outstretched arm, Sam hauled himself to his feet. He closed his eyes to spare himself further ballet moves from the room (_Swan Song on acid_, a very concussed Dean had informed him once, much to Sam's amusement and wonder that his brother had actually made a reference to classical ballet). Dean guided him to the nearest bed and Sam sat down, leaning forward, digging his fingers into his hair, pushing at his temples.

"So. What was it?"

"What do you think it was?" Sam began to massage his temples. "Another vision." He'd hoped, during the lean period after the debacle with the demon-virus-hit-town, that the visions had ceased for good - but clearly, that had been asking for too much. There was more; more like him, Max, Anson, Ava; more that he had to _witness, contend_, _justify_, even as he skirted dangerously close to whatever the hell his destiny was meant to be -

"Dude, you were _smiling_."

Sam opened his eyes with some difficulty and stared at his brother.

Dean shrugged. "You were smiling just before you fell. Can't be too much of a death vision if you're grinning like you just got locked into a library." He paused, and cocked his head. "Unless you were watching some kind of creepy demonic foreplay, in which case -"

"_Dean_." Sam huffed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes in case they actually fell out of his skull. "The vision isn't over."

Dean froze. "What?"

"The pain's not letting up," Sam muttered, dipping his face in his hands. "Gathering." Truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure. The last time he'd had a vision that came in fits and starts was way back in Salvation, when Dad was -

His gut clenched, and his nausea spiked at the memory.

Okay. Not up to reliving _that_ yet, apparently.

"Sam," Dean said, his hands gripping Sam's shoulders. "_Sammy_, c'mon man, it'll be over, c'mon -"

Sam realised he was shaking uncontrollably.

He opened his mouth to reassure Dean (_it's okay dean you don't have to save me because i have to save and i have to save so many and this is a part of it it has to be_) but the pain reached a frightening crescendo that short-circuited his vital systems: all sensation was lost, and when he managed to open his eyes again, he was back in the old house, in the candlelit room with the two young lovers.

* * *

_It was more erratic now: images that came in flashes, like darkness split through by lightning._

_The drip of wax from the lit candle onto the table - _

_The couple throwing long, flickering shadows across the dusty walls as they kissed - _

_A distinct _whump_ sound, as the little flame expanded - an abrupt increase in its intensity as it quickly ate up the remaining wax with a preternatural speed and began scorching the table - _

_The fire then touching the tips of the girl's hair even as the boy's hands ran underneath her shirt and she was gasping and giggling into his mouth -_

_The fire then big enough for them to notice, panic, cough and choke on the rancid smell of burning hair; bright enough to illuminate '_Windom Eagles'_ emblazoned over the boy's jacket -_

_Their bewildered cries as the boy tried to put out the flames eating up her hair even as the fire began to expand quickly, consuming the old rickety wood all around them -_

_The raging inferno drowning out their screams -_

_Yellow-red-gold, heat and chaos consuming the world as the room began to collapse on itself, burning wooden beams falling to the floor before the ceiling gave way -_

_- the __**heat**__, smoke, a profound suffocation as the flames sucked in all air and gave death in return -_

_And -

* * *

_

Sam woke to the smell of his father's aftershave.

_I don't want to go to bed, Dad. I'm scared._

"Hey. Sammy. You okay?"

Sam blinked, and realised he was in his brother's arms. Any other time, this would lead to them scrambling embarrassedly to the opposite ends of the room before Sam could say "chick-flick moment" but all Sam could think at the time was how much his head hurt and _Dean wears Dad's aftershave. Huh._

He gave himself a moment or two to allow the pain to subside to tolerable levels before sitting up. Both of them were wedged rather uncomfortably on the floor between the two beds, Sam practically spilling onto Dean's lap. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet, only to slump light-headedly onto the bed.

"Hey, take it easy." Dean got up, reached out for the water-jug on the bedside table and poured out a glassful. Sam took it and drank deeply. "We need to check this out, Dean," he said when he was done.

Dean's eyes didn't quite meet his. "So. Another death vision, huh."

"Yeah." Sam thought he could still feel the scorching heat, the smoke settling in his lungs, his flesh peeling off his bones - the pain rose and scattered his thoughts again like pieces of an upended jigsaw puzzle. He needed to - he needed to concentrate (_he needed to be on time_). "Fire. Supernatural, I think - it was spreading way too fast." He frowned. "The boy and girl - they were - wait. Was it, uh, Win - uh, _Windom_, and Eagles, and oh god, Dean, they were being _burnt alive_ -"

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. "You do realise that you're making even less sense than usual, right?'

Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Just give me the laptop. And some aspirin." He closed his eyes. "Better yet, a narc or two."

Dean laughed. "So says the man who gets drunk after just two beers."

"Shove it."

* * *

There weren't very many things to do in Windom, Minnesota.

Or so Adam Milligan tried telling himself.

After the last day of school, on a day when most of his classmates were busy planning for the Christmas ahead, hanging out with their friends or vandalising cranky old Mr Portland's prized vegetable garden, his head swam with fear and death. He opened the newspaper he'd flicked from the library that morning again to the second page as he walked home, reading the same article for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, the newsprint already a bit smudged with his sweat.

_TWO KILLED IN FIRE ACCIDENT_

If they only knew -

_But, but. Two killed. __**Killed**__. There has to be - maybe - maybe, this is - _

No. He wouldn't think about that. Not until he'd talked to Dan, anyway. Dan always had the answers; always helped him feel better about these kinds of things.

He dusted off his snow-speckled jacket as he reached home, finding his mother at the kitchen, fussing over something on the stove. She looked up, smiled wanly as he came inside. _She's looking tireder than ever_, Adam thought. He felt a momentary stab of guilt - he wasn't really helping matters, having given up his part-time job as a help in various farms, throwing himself into altogether secret, uh, 'hobbies'. But it was all for a _purpose_, wasn't it? A purpose noble enough to be featured on one of those crappy fantasy 'epic' movies that everybody insisted on watching these days.

She'd understand when the time came.

"Adam," she said. "How was school?"

He gave a non-committal grunt in reply, flinging his bag onto the kitchen table.

"I hope you didn't have anything big planned for the evening," she continued, going back to her work, "I have to work the evening shift today, but it turns out I forgot that Frank Carter's coming over this evening since he can't make it here on Christmas." She paused for a moment, as if wary. "I called him, but he said he'd be coming over anyway, to - to see you."

Adam groaned and slumped into a chair. _Frank_. His insurance agent uncle with the sweaty palms and the sweatier hugs; sickly sweet smiles and patently false platitudes. "Actually," he said loudly, "that sucks, you know, because I _did_ have something planned -"

"Please, Adam." She turned around to face him finally. "You have to realise that - that he's helping us out some right now; we can't be rude."

_You mean, we can't afford to be rude_. Still, Adam stared defiantly at his mother. If there was one evening he _couldn't_ afford to stay home, it was that evening.

Kate sighed and tucked a limp blonde strand behind her ear. "Don't make things more difficult, Adam."

Resentment and fear and guilt roiled in Adam's gut. How was _this_ making things more difficult? Because he couldn't stay at home and entertain the guests like a good little son while his mother earned their daily bread? Because he had to go out there and do what he had to, to ensure that he _had_ a mother at all? "Frank's only coming over," he said belligerently, "because he has no life outside of controlling and manipulating us. When's the last time we had some _real_ relatives visiting, anyway?" The hurt on his mother's face sent another stab of guilt lancing through his chest, but he ploughed on. "And this Christmas - you said Dad might come. Is he?"

His mother's eyes slid away from his gaze.

_Of course not. John Winchester is way too busy for his illegitimate son_.

Adam's jaw locked. It didn't matter. When he met his father for the first time, he would meet him prepared.

"Fine," he said, "_Fine_. I'll stay." He stalked out of the kitchen without a backward glance.

Later that evening, while sitting in the hall and trying his darndest to pick his way through another one of Dan's books, Adam heard a knock at the front door. Rolling his eyes, he tossed the book aside and went to answer it. However, when he opened the door, it wasn't Frank standing in the soft snowfall outside, but someone shorter, hunched over, two bright green eyes staring out of a scarred and pockmarked face.

Adam blinked. "Dan?"

Dan Michaels grinned at him. "Weren't expecting me, were ya?"

"Not really, I mean, Frank was, and, uh -"

"That's okay, I won't be long." He pushed past Adam, kicking off his boots to the side and flinging his scarf and jacket on the sofa. "Just thought you might want to discuss what happened last night, hm?" He threw himself onto the sofa as well, beaming up at Adam.

Adam shifted uncomfortably. "I did as you said," he said. "But - but they've found the remains of two - two p-people there, and they haven't been identified yet, but Carl and Jessie from school are missing and everybody said that they'd been planning to make out at that old place when it burnt down, and - and - if it was a spirit, there shouldn't be human r-remains, right?"

"_Adam_." Dan leaned forward. "You realise that you just learnt an important lesson, right? The hunt isn't a game. It isn't without its sacrifices, and those sacrifices... may be unintended, certainly unfortunate, but sometimes _unavoidable_."

Adam felt like an iron hand was constricting his chest - he just couldn't _breathe_ any more. "So they _are_ dead," he whispered. "I killed them."

"You were trying to get rid of the spirit." Dan shrugged. "They just happened to be there. You didn't know."

"I should've _checked_." Adam clutched at his hair with his now-sweaty hands. "Oh god, I should've _checked_!"

Suddenly Dan was on his feet, grasping his wrists in a firm grip and pulling them away from his head. "Adam, relax!" he barked. "You're going to hyperventilate."

Adam stared at him, scared and half-hating that his eyes were filling with tears. "_I didn't mean to..._"

"I know. I know you didn't." Dan smiled reassuringly at him. "Experience: that's what you need, Adam. You need to learn how to do this better, need to brush up your Latin, need to be tougher, because those big bastards in the dark? They're going to keep hitting your vulnerable spots. They're going to target the ones you hold near and dear. And you would do anything to protect them, right?"

Adam nodded numbly.

"Then you've got to be prepared for the collateral." He let go of Adam. "This is the kind of life your father lives - or has learned to live with." He swept one arm in a strikingly graceful gesture. "But your gift - that's what's gotta help you, Adam. When you achieve true control of it, _that's_ when you're gonna find that things will get a lot easier. You - you've been practicing?"

"Yes." Adam opened his palm, staring at the centre, trying to draw that familiar hot intensity in his chest up again. He found it easier to do when he was angry or afraid: the power rushed through his limbs and lit up his brain like some crazy adrenaline jag and he could _imagine _it - imagine the towering flames, their potential, their destructive power; then imagine that he _was_ the fire, able to control its every flicker; and the wild joy that this feeling provided only served to further feed the power within him, until he was completely lost in it.

At first, his attempts were weak, accompanied by skull-splitting headaches and near-endless nosebleeds, but he had long learned to give himself to the fire, and not the other way around.

It became a lot easier after that.

After a brief moment of concentration, a small flame flickered to life in Adam's palm. "Excellent," Dan said, leaning forward, the fire a dancing yellow gleam in his eyes. "John Winchester would be proud."


	2. Two

****_**A/N:**_ Sorry for the huge delay; life's been pretty busy, and just when I got some time to write, s6 came as a big distraction. Also, this chapter? Deleted and started from scratch _thrice_. Still not entirely satisfied, but hey.

My sincere thanks to those who reviewed the first part - hope you continue to enjoy!

**_Two_**

"There's been another murder."

Dean looked to his side, brow furrowing. "What?"

Sam was slumped in the front seat of the Impala, eyes half-closed, the sweat beading on his forehead shining in the light-dark-light of the streetlights as they shot past the windows. Dean was possessed of a sudden urge to place his hand against Sam's forehead, check his temperature. The kid looked sick. "Sam?"

"Another murder, Dean," Sam said irritably. He tilted his head back, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes like he could stuff what had to be a bad headache into a neat little box in the back of his brain, being the OCD gigantor that he was. "We need to go faster."

_Faster, Dean. Not much time left before you're going to have to kill me, too. _Dean pursed his lips. Damn if he was going to let Sam run this situation with that manic energy that scared Dean sometimes. Not after that little stunt he'd pulled not a few weeks back, sneaking away in the middle of the night and nearly getting both their sorry asses killed. "Was that a vision, or what?" he asked. "I mean, you weren't sleeping or doing that spacing-out thing you do usually..."

Sam squinted at him. "It just... came to me, I don't know." Dean was about to open his mouth again (_don't you give me that bullshit, Sammy_) but Sam beat him to it. "These visions... it's like they're coming in installments. Not more than three or four seconds at a time. And there's no warning, Dean. Sometimes, I - uh. Um. I don't know."

One of these days, Dean decided, he was going to sit Sam down and make him finish a sentence properly - preferably when he wasn't in the clutches of a skull-splitting migraine induced by death visions. "So is that what this is - some kind of interrupted transmission? You only to chose to speak up once you got the full picture?"

At this Sam dropped his hands from his face and turned to unleash the full power of his bitchface on Dean. "I didn't know, alright? 'Sides, I think it's already happened." He slumped back into the seat. "Just like the fire."

_The fire_. As it turned out, Sam figured out that it had taken place in Windom, Minnesota - _good, if we leave right now and floor it we can save them_, he'd said, all quiet and intense and strong, and Dean had felt that horrible choking _fear_ again that something, _something_, wasn't right with his brother - but it had only taken a glance at the online edition of _Windom Gazette_ to know that they were too late. There had been a fire in an old abandoned house on the outskirts of the town the previous night, and the remains of two bodies had been found in the wreckage. While nothing was confirmed yet, it was rumoured to be two high-schoolers that nobody'd seen since the evening of the fire - Carl Thompson and Jessie Fraser.

Sam had looked so shattered.

Dean sighed. "So what did you see?"

His brother turned his face, lips pressing together into a thin line. "Late evening, early night - a man, middle-aged, I think. Throat cut open, and, uh." His eyes scrunched closed. "He was driving, veered off the road and crashed. And then. Then... there was fire. Fire, Dean." Sam's voice was gradually fading, the lines around his eyes easing.

"Sam!" Dean hated to disturb him just as he was giving into exhaustion and finally getting some goddamned rest, but he needed to know more. Had to finish this shit so it would stop haunting Sam (_haunting them_). "You see anything else? Licence plates, street signs?"

"No, nothing. He was driving a blue sedan, but... that's about it."

_Well, shit_. "It's gotta be related to the Windom fire, then," Dean said.

"Maybe," Sam said quietly. There was a long pause before he spoke again, voice soaked in pain and exhaustion. "Or maybe it's something else - some_where _else, to distract us from the fire."

_Or maybe it's another thing to lure us to Windom._ Dean hadn't forgotten the whole Croatoan incident, with Sam's visions leading them to that demon-virus-infected town, and the fiasco that ensued. "Well, we'll know once we get there, won't we?" He glanced at Sam. "Get some sleep before then, yeah? You don't want to scare the locals with your giant zombie get-up."

Sam didn't roll his eyes or snap back like Dean had hoped, but just settled deeper into his seat and closed his eyes. "Gonna die this time," he said in a voice so low Dean could just barely hear it, "and then another, and... real. D'know, Dean. Don't know." And his lips stopped moving, his breathing gradually settling into the gentler rhythm of sleep.

Dean clenched his teeth. _Sammy and his goddamn cryptic angst_.

He didn't bother to hide the waves of fear that trembled through his arms as he continued to drive.

* * *

Adam Milligan's new life started with a dream.

At first, there was nothing more remarkable about the dream than the very fact that he could remember it - splashes of colour and confused movement with the faces of the people he knew and loved floating in and out of resolution, like he was suspended in some kind of giant kaleidoscope. It ended with the face of a man he'd never seen before: old and tired and ordinary but with eyes that glowed a sick, jaundiced yellow. No words, no noise: just the old man, looking at him with something akin to amusement and pity.

So, yeah, nothing remarkable, because Adam tended to dream a lot of weird shit anyway, but it lingered with him the whole day afterwards, gnawing away at the back of his brain like a particularly persistent insect. And when he dreamt that night again, the yellow-eyed man came back and spoke. Except, it wasn't in any language that Adam understood; it was a noise so high-pitched that it seemed to him like it was trying to scoop his brains out through his ears. Just when the pain touched unbearable levels, the yellow-eyed man disappeared in a sudden bloom of fire and Adam woke, panting and drenched in sweat, blood dripping from his nostrils.

The next day, he met Dan Michaels.

He had just finished his evening shift over at Cousin Oliver's and was on his way home, already looking at the homework assignments he had to complete that night, the studying for the extra classes he was taking, kickstarting the preparation for the exhibition he was representing the school a few weeks later (_we can't afford med school Adam we're just making ends meet as it is_) when a shudder ran down his spine and the temperature around him seemed to drop a few degrees.

Nonplussed, Adam looked side to side - a few people moving about in the crisp autumn breeze, some kids running, laughing, the rumble of an occasional car - and felt ridiculous (_you know what you are Milligan you're an arrogant bastard who has no time for anybody mark my words you're going to go insane_). And that was when he spotted it: a shimmer in the air down the road, a flash of colour, and - was that a face? (_was that the man with the yellow eyes?_)

Without even fully knowing why, he walked toward it, only for the face to blink out of existence and reappear a few metres away. And when he followed it, it did it again, leading him further and further away from the road, into the scraggly thicket of trees the town's residents liked to term their forest. He was running now as the face winked on and off, always so tantalisingly _close_ -

And when he turned a final corner, he saw _her_.

She was young, maybe ten, eleven years old, all blonde hair and dark eyes glowing with a soft, appealing innocence. She smiled at him - a melancholy smile, an enchanting smile, a smile that held all the secrets of the world crystallised into a single grain of truth that rested at the upturned corner of her lips - and spoke. "Hello, Adam," she said, soft, lilting, "thank you so much for coming with me."

She walked toward him, seeming to flicker in and out in the sunlight filtering through the trees. He stood dumbly, mesmerised.

"Adam." She raised her arms at him, looking for all the world like a little girl asking for a hug. He didn't notice the temperature drop further as he stepped toward her; didn't notice her fingernails peel back and blood dribble down the undersides of her arms and onto her white gown. Didn't notice the spread of blue-black decay creeping from under her frilly collar or the white-yellow of bone as a ray of sunlight hit her face at the right angle.

Not until another voice cried out his name, something warm and large barelled into his side and knocked him to the ground.

No sooner had he hit the leaf-strewn dirt than a gunshot rang through the air, followed by a grunt and a scream. Adam flinched, and when he opened his eyes, there was a man where he'd been standing just a few moments before, hefting a long-barelled gun. The girl was gone.

"What...?"

Another scream, and she was back - next to the man, arms reaching out for him, blood dripping from her eyes and ears and lips and long jagged scars that tore themselves into her skin in front of their very eyes -

The man pulled the trigger, and the girl vanished again.

Adam gaped.

"Hello, Adam," the man said, meeting his gaze with old green eyes that glinted with amusement, "I see you've found your first ghost. Congrats, son."

Dan Michaels was the end of the beginning.

* * *

"And what were they asking again?"

Adam watched as Dan moved the oilcloth in and over the gun's barrel methodically. "I don't know. FBI kind of questions?"

Dan's hands stilled for the briefest of moments, and Adam felt it like a strongly-worded admonishment. _Right. Supposed to be taking this seriously_. He picked nervously at a loose thread on the rattly old couch he was sitting on. "They're investigating the fire, and Carl and Jessie's deaths. And, uh," he dropped his eyes, "about Frank, too."

At this Dan laid his gun and cleaning supplies aside and laced his fingers across his lap. "I thought even your mother was informed only this morning about the accident."

Adam felt a familiar frustration bubbling in him, and he stood up to pace, to vent some of the energy that had been building up since the news had arrived. That morning, barely hours after his mother returned from her shift, the call informing her of Frank's death had arrived. Throat slashed open, body mangled and half-destroyed in the wreckage of his crashed car. Unmarried and with no particularly close friend or partner, his mother had been the first to be contacted, and asked to come identify the body, a few counties over. And she had - she had -

Looked relieved? Scared? Maybe Adam was imagining all that, dramatising. Maybe she just looked resigned.

It was a familiar look on her these days.

"Adam?"

He glanced at Dan, who'd gotten up from the bed and was looking at him with concern. "You okay, son?"

_hunt without sacrifices isn't a hunt at all but what is a sacrifice that isn't done for love and what is a hunt that doesn't sacrifice love itself_

"Adam!" He jerked to attention at the tone (_spaced-out arrogant Milligan hates us, boys_). "I'm - I'm fine," he said quickly. "I don't know how these two agents knew - but they've been asking around town a bit, and they definitely mentioned Frank." He swallowed, his eyes tracing the contours of Dan's sparse apartment without really taking in anything. "You don't think - I mean, this whole thing started because that old place was haunted, and you said I had to burn it down, _you said_ -" He abruptly shook his head; he was going about this the wrong way. He shouldn't be afraid - he should, should. He should man-up, right? "I burnt it down. And maybe whatever was in there is back? I mean, I don't know, but Frank was murdered within a locked car, the keys still in the ignition -"

"We don't know, yet, Adam." Dan smiled. "The last thing you want to be doing as a hunter is jump to premature conclusions." He picked up the whetting stone from the bed and the large Bowie knife he'd promised Adam that he could one day even come near. He let the edge scrape across the stone, the rhythmic _scrrich scrrich_ resounding through the silence strangely calming. "Tell me more about these agents."

"I haven't seen them." Adam sighed. "I heard they were at Carl and Jessie's houses this morning, asking questions and stuff. And they were mentioning Frank, so, yeah, I think they might be coming over to my home later today, and -" He squinted at Dan, who was now sharpening the knife with a small smile quirking his lips. "What are you laughing about?"

Dan looked up at him, half-exasperated. "_Think_, okay? Why would they be asking about Frank, too? And so soon?"

Adam blinked. "They're _hunters_?"

"Can't be sure - you can never be sure what these government fellows get in their heads to look into - but, yeah. Seems likely." Dan laughed, the sound startling Adam like shattering glass in the non-silence. "In fact, it seems like something John Winchester would do."

Adam's heart suddenly felt three sizes too large for his chest. "You mean, Jo-Dad - you really think he _might be_ -"

"Don't get your hopes up, Adam." There was a trace of quiet sadness in Dan's voice as he returned to sharpening the knife.

"But if there's a chance that it's _him_, then, _then_, this is the perfect opportunity!" Adam's eyes gleamed; if at all he felt uncomfortable about terming murder - that of his uncle, no less - as a perfect opportunity, he pushed it deep down. "I'm ready to see him, you know I am."

The rhythm stopped again. "Maybe you are," he said slowly. "Or maybe you won't meet him at all, and it's only his sons snooping around."

"I don't -" Adam stopped, his eyes widening and fingers convulsively clutching at the back of the couch as he realised the implications of that last sentence. "_Sons_?"

Dan nodded. "Two of them - both of them raised in the hunting life. Just as good as me, or John - maybe even better, not that he'd ever admit that openly."

The frustration was back, boiling and bubbling at the pit of his stomach to the point of physical pain. "He already has - oh, man." He threw his arms in the air. "And you didn't bother to tell me this before, _why_?"

"They're dangerous, Adam." Dan shrugged. "Haven't seen either of them in years, but I've heard things. The two of them alienate themselves from the rest of the community worse than their father ever did, and that? That kind of means they don't trust us. And, boy, in this profession, trust is _everything_." He grinned at Adam. "Besides, I knew you were not going to take this very well."

Adam's head was reeling, and it took him a second to realise it was because he was breathing too heavily, beads of sweat soaking into his eyebrows and leaking into his eyes. "You should've told me," he said, trying to get back control of his breathing, feeling a familiar heat build in his palms, in tandem with the rising pain in his stomach. "They're - they're still," god, the word sounded so _weird_ coming out of his mouth, "my brothers."

"They are," Dan said solemnly. "And that's what you should be afraid of."

* * *

It wasn't until Dan mentioned John Winchester that Adam really started getting interested.

Until then, everything he told him was something of a ride through a particularly macabre house of horrors - something Adam would've dismissed two words into the whole thing, if he hadn't _seen _(_ghosts and silver and blood and decay and_). Dan spoke of ghosts and revenants and things that creeped in the murky corners of Adam's dreams, dripping blood and acid and inky blackness. He spoke of vengeful spirits and putting them to rest; of salt, and fire, and rituals that better fit among the pages of some dark medieval text.

He took Adam to salt and burn the corpse of the little girl who had come to them in the forest that day, and he spoke about John Winchester.

_Winchester's an old buddy of mine,_ he had said. _And I know who you are, Adam_.

He had forced his father's name out of his mother years ago; however, she had refused to tell him anything else. Every major holiday, every one of his birthdays after that passed with the unfulfilled promise of his father's visit - Adam had begun to suspect that John did not know of his existence at all. But _now_, if -

_So my father_, he'd said, rolling the word on his tongue, savouring it, _he does... this. What you do_.

Dan had nodded. _He's a hunter, Adam, and one of the best I know_.

Adam had thought. There was so much to consider; and yet, nothing at all, because if this was _real_, and this was _his_ connection to his father, there was nothing to consider at all. _Then tell me more_, he'd said, _teach me everything you know_.

_Of course_. Dan had smiled. _I was only waiting for you to ask._


End file.
